


His First and Last

by Stormvoël (BushRat8)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Don't read if you're squeamish!, F/M, Physical Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-12 17:22:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15344760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/Stormvo%C3%ABl
Summary: A young, newly-turned-pirate Hector's crewmates have been badgering him about the delights of having all the women they want, any time they want, whether the women want them or not.  Anxious to fit in, he initially takes their word for it, but once in a position to learn the truth for himself, he discovers that the reality is vastly different.==>> !! Pay attention to the rating and warning !!  This is a hyperrealistic and thoroughly hideous XXX look at the way a woman worth nothing in ransom could expect to be treated by a bad-tempered, sex-starved pirate crew.  But the tale is not here for the sake of gratuitous sexual abuse and violence;  rather, it's because this event will prove to be a highly formative one for Barbossa;  it will color his attitudes and actions for the rest of his days, and cannot be left out of any recounting of his life's story.





	His First and Last

**Author's Note:**

> An ugly experience he had when he first went to sea — mentioned in _Hands Off!!_ and detailed in _Restoration_ — coupled with the family background he has in my headcanon (six sisters and a mother he adored) have predisposed Barbossa to be averse to sexual violence toward women, but at this point, he's still vulnerable to the expectations of those around him; what we'd call peer pressure in modern times. It will prove to be a very upsetting combination. 
> 
> A "sprat" is a child.
> 
> Thank you to Walkwithursus for taking time to share a thoughtful discussion on this difficult topic.

 

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

 

 

 

"Come on, boy:  she's yers for th' takin'!  You led th' charge, so ye'll be first t' open up that pink cunt of hers;  grease it up good for th' rest of us!"  
  
Hector looks at the shrieking lady's maid his crewmates are holding down, her scraped knees wrenched apart, opening everything to sight and touch.  They've stripped her to the skin and started the festivities by forcing her to pleasure one of the dirtiest of their number with her mouth, hooting when she gags on his filth and his semen, then vomits repeatedly all over the deck.  "Ye'll lie in that, bitch!"  one of the swabbies barks, whereupon she's pushed down on her back to do just that.  "Fuck if I shouldn't make ye lick it up, hard as I work t' keep that damn deck clean!"  
  
There's a roar of laughter, and all eyes turn expectantly toward Hector as the one privileged to be first to split her open.    
  
He finds none of this appealing or exciting, but the exertions of the battle have left him so impossibly hard that he's straining at his breeches and aching for relief.  His first thought had been to go find a quiet corner for a satisfying wank, but the rest of the crew obviously has other ideas.  
  
Not wanting to disappoint or have them think he's some kind of weakling, Hector unbuttons, pulls himself out, approaches, the woman crying piteously at the sight of him, her whole body shuddering as he positions himself between her thighs.  He's chewing on his lower lip, not at all sure he wants to do this, and wonders if she might miraculously escape the iron grip of the men, but no such thing happens.  She's still there, held down before him, and the others are awaiting this initial violation so they might then get in line for their turns.  
  
When Hector first tries to enter her, she squeezes herself tight in a desperate effort to keep him out.  He slaps her face and she loosens slightly, but once he manages to wedge himself two inches in, he finds she's dry, far too dry — that she's rough as sand against the thin, tender skin of his cock — so he pulls back, spits several times in his hand, and strokes himself for a moment.  "Nice prick ye got there, Barbossa!"  th bo'sun calls in admiration. "Good thing ye didn't try to stuff it down her throat for a suck, or she'd ha' strangled on it, an' I don't fancy fuckin' dead meat!  But that thing… Lord Al-fuckin'-mighty, that'll stretch her good an' wide;  get that cunt flappin' loose 'nough t' take two of us at once!"  More laughter, for there's more than one man who's done that with a friend, and others who'd be pleased to try it.  
  
Hector ignores him and readies himself for a second attempt.  
  
This time, three hard pushes are what it takes to sink himself all the way in, his comrades cheering each time the woman squeals in pain and outrage, applauding him as he sets to work.  She's bucking against him, trying to get away, sobbing miserably in his ear, and each time he drives his stiff organ into the deepest recesses of her body, he knows he's hurting her in the worst way a woman can be hurt.    
  
It doesn't feel the way his mates said it would.  There's no delight in it, no pleasure to it;  none at all.  It feels… it feels… Hector hasn't the words to describe how it feels.  He's not at all certain he wants to.  What _is_ certain is that this woman will be haunting his nightmares, accusing him of her rape, never letting him forget it, and promising him that he will one day know what an unspeakable thing he's just done.  
  
But no matter what he thinks, no matter what he fears, _something_ about what he's doing feels good enough to keep him hard and keep him going, his groans getting louder and louder in rhythm with the woman's wails and the laughter of his friends around him, until he reaches his climax in spite of everything, crying out, then collapsing, his long russet hair stuck to his sweaty face.  "Oi, Barbossa!"  he hears one man holler.  "That were quite a load ye left in 'er, boy;  think ye'll get her with a sprat?  Think she'll like it, watchin' her belly get big wi' yer spawn?  Think it'll have yer blue eyes?  P'raps we should keep 'er locked up here an' see what happens!"  
  
It's the sort of thing the men always snicker at each other with every woman they despoil, but Hector doesn't find it the least bit funny, muttering, "Shut yer fuckin' trap!"    
  
He can't bear the smell any longer — of the woman's sweat, of her tears, of her bile, of the other man's dirt and effluvia in her mouth, and damn it, in her fright, she's pissed on him — so he gets off her and backs away.  He intends to stuff himself back in his breeches, leaving the others to their sport while he gets a drink, when he looks down and horror overcomes him.  
  
Hector has blood on him:  streaks of it, gouts of it, staining his skin and hair;  it's not his own, and he knows she wasn't bleeding when the crew pushed her down and spread her open.  No, this blood is _because_ of him, because he was needlessly rough and cruel;  because he stabbed his cock into a frightened woman who didn't want him, and cared not what kind of damage he did.  
  
Moving quickly away from the others, he goes to the rail, taking up a dipper of water to cleanse himself of the blood;  but even before he's managed to refasten his buttons, he's got both hands against his roiling stomach, assailed by the memory of all the women he's loved in his life — his mother, his many sisters, his aunts and cousins — who glare furiously and condemn him for what he's done.  What, they ask him, would he think of a man who would force such a thing upon _them?_   What if a mob of strange men laid hands on his mother and did to her what he did today?

Oh God, what if he _does_ get the woman with child and it _does_ have his blue eyes?  They're his mother's blue eyes… and he suddenly knows he can't ever go home again because he'll never be able to face her.  
  
_I didn't bring you up this way, Hector!_   he hears her weep in anger and shame.  _Not t' be such a brute;  not t' be such a beast!  If this be what ye've become, then ye're no son of mine!_  
  
Then an even worse memory surfaces to sharply remind him that he, too, was once the victim;  that his own body was plundered by cackling men with no regard for his will or his pain.  He _knows_ how it feels;  how, then, could he do it to another?  
  
A tear drips down Hector's face, brushed quickly away.  He cannot do this again.  He will slaughter a thousand, ten thousand men and it won't ever deprive him of one wink of sleep, but this…  he will never do this again.  
  
He glances briefly back towards the men taking turns with the woman, who's battered and bruised and reduced to whimpering because she's too exhausted to scream anymore, until the next man in line turns her over, lifts her backside up, shoves into the one place she's not yet been used, and begins ploughing so fast and hard that he tears her and blood starts to flow down her legs.  That's when her real shrieks start, so loud that they reverberate about the ship, intermingled with choking when she once again heaves, though naught but a belch and a dribble of spit come up because there's nothing left in her stomach.      
  
_Ne'er again_ ,  Hector thinks as he turns away, sick to death, trying to push away memories and sensations he thought he'd buried:  of shocking pain and blood and the kind of nausea that turned him inside out.  _I cannot do this, not e'er again!_  
  
No matter what his mates will say, no matter who laughs at him, no matter what excuse he must give, he will _never_ do this again.  
 

 

  
  
  
-oOo-  FIN  -oOo-


End file.
